


Small Things

by tjstar



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, maybe warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:59:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-related drabbles/side stories</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take Me To Your Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I kinda fight in my sleep, I hope you can dodge in your sleep”

**Pete/Patrick**

 

“Can I sleep in your bed?” Pete almost begs, but Patrick keeps staring at his laptop with poker face, and Pete tries not to think of what he’s looking at.

“Man, it’s weird,” Patrick replies, adjusting his glasses.

Honestly, Pete thinks that Patrick’s glasses are the sexiest thing ever, but he’s sure his roommate hates any compliments, because he doesn’t believe he’s incredibly cute. But that’s the fact.

“It’s not my fault that the puddle from our upstairs neighbor’s bathroom leaked all over my bed, and IT’S WET NOW!” Pete yells, making Patrick wince.

Patrick lifts his head and examines the ceiling, and yes — the wet dirty spot on the yellow-white foam tiles looks nasty, and small droplets are still falling right onto Pete’s bed.

“We can move your bed away from this Niagara Fall,” Patrick shrugs.

“Dude, it’s water everywhere, and my mattress will be dry _tomorrow_ ,” Pete convinces.

Actually he can sleep on the floor with pillow and blanket, but also with dust, and probably with spiders, and it’s not funny. Pete prefers Patrick’s bed with warm and soft Patrick, and — of course — he wants to cuddle with him. Desperately wants.

Patrick sighs, he always sighs when he doesn’t know what to say. It’s night, and they almost solved the problem with Brendon — the guy who forgot to turn off the shower in his bathroom. It’s not Pete’s fault, and Patrick’s bed is big enough for two of them.

The ceiling dries very slowly. Mattress, pillows and sheets are sprawled all over the bedroom parquet.

“Okay,” Patrick finally closes his laptop and takes his glasses off. “But I know you’re kicking in your sleep, so…”

“I’ll be careful!” Pete responds happily and goes to a wardrobe to take his pajama pants. He used to sleep only in his underwear, but he suggests that Patrick will be very confused of it.

They’re tired at college today, and Patrick really wants to sleep, but when Pete craws under the covers, he suddenly finds himself wide-awake. Pete hugs him, his hand on Patrick’s stomach, and it makes Patrick feel good and uncomfortable at the same time. But mostly — good.

“Goodnight, Trick,” Pete whispers into Patrick’s ear; his hot breath tickles the skin, and Patrick scratches his sideburn.

“Yeah, night,” he mumbles, tugging his t-shirt down.

It’s his first time when he sleeps in one bed with a ~~guy~~  someone, and the trouble is: Pete’s very attractive, and Patrick’s pajama pants are suddenly _that way tight,_ and he doesn’t want to wake up in sticky boxers ~~again~~. Patrick rolls onto his side, hoping Pete didn’t notice something; he hears Pete smirks.

About an hour later, Pete’s breath becomes deeper and calmer, and Patrick slides into a deep sleep, burying his nose into a pillow.

But he can’t sleep well when he’s sharing a bed with Pete Wentz.

Patrick gasps and wakes up, because a pretty hard blow stabs his side; he’s not good at Anatomy, but Patrick guesses Pete hit him in the liver. Not the best way to learn the location of the internal organs.

“What are you doing?!” Patrick shouts and sits up, turning on a nightlight on the small table near the bed. “Pete, stop it!”

Pete’s a soccer star, and Patrick’s just a nerdy guy, but it doesn’t mean he can’t protect himself. He dodges Pete’s fist, and in the dim light he realizes his friend’s eyes are closed; it’s the same situation when Pete hits the wall in his sleep, but there are no walls anymore, there’s only Patrick.

Pete lies on his back, but he obviously fights with someone; Patrick doesn’t want to be Pete’s punching bag, and he just kicks him out of the bed. It helps.

Pete falls with the loud sound, and Patrick starts to gloat, clutching his burning side.

“Motherfucker,” Pete moans from under the bed. “You kicked me!”

“You punched my guts!” Patrick lifts the corner of his t-shirt up and rubs his reddened skin. It’s not even a bruise, but it hurts anyway.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Pete’s disheveled head shows over the side of the bed. “But I’m not going to sleep on the floor. You can tie me, I don’t mind,” he offers and flops down onto the bed again.

Patrick snorts and moves away from Pete, but he catches and cuddles him, whispering apologizes. Patrick’s sleepy like 90% of his life, so he passes out as soon as he closes his eyes.

Dozing off, Pete hopes he can control himself, and they’ll be sleeping calmly for the rest of the night.

They don’t know it, but they see one dream for both of them.

When Patrick wakes up, hearing the alarm clock on his phone, he’s alone in the bed; he puts his glasses on and glances at shirtless Pete on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by a pile of pillows and sheets.

Patrick stretches and sits up, trying to cover his ‘growing problem’ with the blanket.

“Morning, Trick,” Pete says, spreading the sheets on the floor. Patrick waves his hand in greeting and smiles.

“How’s your bed?” Patrick asks, yawning.

“Maybe in the evening it will be dry, I’m not sure,” Pete says sadly. “I think… We need to spend one more night together.”

“I will wear a helmet,” Patrick groans, leaning back to his pillow. “But well… Yes,” he sighs.

He always sighs when he has nothing left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just liked that idea ^^  
> \----  
> you can tell me about my grammar errors or something else


	2. Do You Like Pets?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ve been dating for a while and I finally showed you my pet snake and you look sick do you need to lie down AU”

**Gabe/Patrick**

 

It’s Valentine’s Day, and it’s their first official date not somewhere else, but in Gabe’s apartment. Patrick’s pretty nervous, and there are two reasons for it: A) he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do even after two month of their dating. B) Gabe’s smile is so strange, and Patrick guesses _what_ he will offer to do, and he doesn’t want to show himself inexperienced in _that_ thing.

Patrick calms himself that Gabe’s grin is _always_ strange. They’re standing in front of the door, and Gabe rummages in his jacket’s pockets, searching for the keys.

“Do you like… pets?” he asks gently, inserting the key into the keyhole.

“Yeah, dogs are good, I think,” Patrick shrugs. “Or golden fishes. Why do you ask?” he frowns, noticing his boyfriend’s embarrassment.

“Well… I have something to show you,” Gabe sighs, crossing his fingers for Patrick’s sanity.

Gabe opens the door and invites Patrick to enter the room, thinking he had to warn him beforehand. But maybe he likes not only the dogs and golden fishes?..

“Um… Okay,” Patrick nods but he feels more uncomfortable than before, and apparently, there’s some reason. Definitely.

When Patrick walks into the living room, his concerns are confirmed immediately. He sees a huge terrarium with lamps, sand and plants, and something’s moving between ceramic stones; something long, brown with abstract yellow spots, it has a scaly skin and looks impressively. Gabe goes to the terrarium and removes the glass cover, shoving his hands into this ‘wildlife’, and pulls out a big, thick snake which looks well-fed and satisfied.

“This is William or you can call him Bill,” Gabe explains. “It’s a Python Regius, a Royal Python.”

Bill sticks out his forked tongue, and Patrick can swear he hears a little ‘tsss’ sound, and he just hopes that Bill said something good and friendly. This _pet_ reaches a 4’11’’ in length and it is resembles Patrick’s own height. Daily news: his hot boyfriend has a snake almost his size. Well, Bill’s thinner than Patrick, but it doesn’t matter, because this SNAKE writhing, and it HISSES, and Patrick realizes that he likes golden fishes more than anything in his life.

Gabe holds a python, and Patrick isn’t scared — what are you talking about — he just isn’t feeling well. At all.

“Woah,” Patrick exhales when Bill touches his hand with his… tale?

“Bilvy likes you,” Gabe laughs, more concerned about his snake’s mood than about his boyfriend’s state. “He doesn’t bite.”

Patrick’s imagination draws pictures in ‘Anaconda’ movie style, and he really wants to be braver, but he thinks how Bill’s chocking him and he feels like python is already doing it. Probably, he sways, because Gabe puts the snake into terrarium quickly and wraps his hands around Patrick’s shoulders, leaning to him.

“Unexpectedly,” Patrick mutters, staring at the terrarium. “He’s just… Really big.”

He remembers that reptiles like to hunt and eat small animals and birds, and he feels his face becomes paler and maybe slightly green.

“You look sick, do you need to lie down? Maybe water?” Gabe worries, squeezing Patrick’s body in his arms.

“No I’m fine,” Patrick shakes his head and suddenly notices another ‘pet’ — a white mouse in the glass jar near Bilvy’s ‘house’. “Is it a… food?”

If the answer will be ‘yes’ then he will really need to lie down. Without any shame.

“Yes…” Gabe starts, but trails off when Patrick pushes him away, runs to the glass jar, grabs it and presses to his chest. “It’s Mikey Mouse…”

“Cool, it will be _my_ mouse. Hey dude,” Patrick taps on the glass, and Mikey looks at him with his black beady-eyes curiously.

Such a heartwarming scene, and Gabe smirks; actually he doesn’t want to use the mouse as Bill’s food, and it would be the first time, because his python’s too lazy to hunt, and he usually eats just a fresh meat.

“Do you want to take Mikey Mouse home?” Gabe raises his eyebrow.

Patrick nods, heads to a couch and sits down, crossing his legs. He puts Mikey on his palm and smirks when mouse starts to tickle him with his tiny paws. He feels responsible for the life of this cute creature, and seriously — it’s not a dog or golden fish, but he wants to take it home. Gabe sits next to him and looks at Patrick with a little smile.

“No one will eat you,” Patrick promises, stroking the mouse’s head with his index finger. “You’ll be my Valentine.”

“Hey, I’m your Valentine!” Gabe chuckles. “Will you be friends with my snake?”

It’s not what Patrick wants to hear, but it’s not a reason for hysteria.

“Yeah, of course,” Patrick wrinkles his nose. “But anyway, I prefer golden fishes.”

Gabe giggles and kisses his boyfriend’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe favorited my tweet and that’s why this fic exists :D


	3. Let's Play This Game Called 'When You Catch Fire...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick doesn’t know what irritates him more: the fact of cheating or the fact that Joe can’t normally hide it.

**Patrick/Joe**

 

Joe’s cellphone with that awful standard tune keeps driving Patrick crazy. Joe went out for jogging, and Patrick didn’t want to go with him, so now he just hangs out with his laptop and guitar, trying to finish the song. Joe’s phone ringing again, and that beeping sound distracts him; Patrick is an extremely polite person, but also he’s pretty curious, so he curses Joe’s forgetfulness and heads to the hallway. With a loud sigh, Patrick pulls the phone out of the pocket of his boyfriend’s jacket — Joe doesn’t have any secrets. Hopefully.

_‘3 new messages from: M’_

Patrick doesn’t want to do this, honestly, but he presses ‘read’. Why not.

_‘did you talk to him?’_

_‘hey, sweetie, answer me’_

_‘when can I move to you?’_

‘What,’ Patrick thinks, staring blankly at the screen. He understands the subject, but. What? Patrick lives in this house almost two and a half years, and what the shit is going on? Patrick scrolls messages — few weeks of Joe’s new relationship, his new crush; Joe calls her ‘my girl’ and sends her kissy emojis and smiley faces. No names, though.

It explains everything. That’s why Joe has been strange and silent all that time. Patrick doesn’t know what irritates him more: the fact of cheating or the fact that Joe can’t normally hide it. But hey, his relationship with that ‘M’ girl is more than just serious; maybe, Joe ‘forgot’ his phone on purpose, and Patrick got caught. Traitor. They’re whispering behind Patrick’s back, and now Patrick is the last one to know the truth; probably, Joe’s planning to talk to Patrick and ask him to move away, but… if it comes to breaking up, Patrick has the right to his own opinion.

He’s not a person who likes to sit and cry in the corner, acting like a drama queen; Patrick wants to make it clear.

Fine. She wants to live with Joe, and Patrick is going to give her space, literally. It’s kind of a rash decision, but at the moment Patrick doesn’t care — he just runs across the house, taking Joe’s t-shirts, jeans and shoes, even his tuxedo, which Joe wears too rarely to remember about its existence. Patrick explodes with anger; he feels betrayed, and it hurts so fucking bad. Surprisingly, he doesn’t even hate that girl — Patrick can’t hate someone he doesn’t know, that ‘M’ is just a faceless person for him, but Joe… Why the hell he didn’t tell him earlier? So, Patrick decides it is Joe’s fault. All of this, really.

Patrick throws Joe’s belongings at the back yard, building something that looks like wigwam; he’s pretty sure this is all Joe’s clothes, including his socks and underwear. It will be a good lesson for a cheater; Patrick knows he will feel terrible after that, but he pours a gasoline on the pile of clothes and lights a match.

Well, it burns very nice. Patrick almost relaxes, looking at the flame, and he doesn’t even hear steps behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

Yeah, now Patrick hears it. He’s still in the trance, but Joe turns on the garden hose, and thick stream of water hits the flame; it’s just a light black smoke after a minute, and Joe’s clothes only half-burned, but ruined anyway. Patrick gloats.

“ _Your girl_ needs a space for her things. I’m helping,” Patrick sasses, the lenses of his glasses gleam, catching the faint sparks of already dead fire.

“Stop yelling,” breathing heavily, Joe looks around like he doesn’t want to bother their neighbors. “Let’s go inside,” he grabs Patrick by the shoulders and drags him back to the house, but Patrick isn’t going to help them solve the problem.

As soon as they’re in the hallway, Joe opens his mouth to explain the situation, but he loses his train of thought when Patrick’s fist connects with his chin and bottom lip.

“I know… everything,” Patrick snaps angrily, flinching his hand.

“Hey, stop! I just didn’t know how to tell you!” Joe dodges another blow, but Patrick can’t control himself anymore.

Unfortunately, Joe’s forced to fight back; probably, it is the only way to calm Patrick down. Joe didn’t want to hit Patrick too hard, but accidentally he did. Gasping, Patrick sways and barely manages to stand on his feet, leaning his back against the wall and covering his face with his hands. Patrick’s glasses are lying on the parquet, smashed.

Also, there are few crimson drops on the floor, because Patrick tilts his head forward as the blood leaks slowly between his fingers.

Joe licks his split lip and swallows the salty taste in his mouth.

“Patrick?” Joe doesn’t think he has a right to touch him, so he freezes with an outstretched hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” Patrick mutters weakly, still pressing hands to his nose; when he takes his palms off of his face, the blood starts trickling harder. “Shit.”

Joe runs to the bathroom and damps the towel as Patrick looks at his blurry reflection in the mirror in the hallway. He touches the bridge of his nose, and it’s swollen and obviously not good. Patrick takes a deep breath and tries to fix it; it hurts, but Patrick is somewhat satisfied when he feels a little ‘crack’. He guesses he will not look like Owen Wilson after that.

“So…” Joe is terrified, watching the drops of water from towel mixing with small red spots on the parquet.

“Broken,” Patrick concludes as Joe hands him cold and wet towel.  

“Maybe ice?” Joe offers sheepishly, avoiding his ex-boyfriend’s eyes.

Yes, Patrick wants to get rid of pain, and he wants to put tons of ice on his face, but it’s secondary, because Patrick still has some questions to ask.

“Do you love her?” Patrick’s voice sounds tragically and quietly. “More than you loved me?”

“Well… It’s different,” Joe lets out a groan, running his fingers through his curly hair. Patrick likes Joe’s hair, and of course, Joe’s girlfriend likes it too.

“I’m leaving,” Patrick informs, wiping his face.

“Can you stay _here_ just for tonight?” Joe almost begs, and Patrick feels numb and empty.

Joe glances at him regretfully, and Patrick wonders who looks more miserable; both of them, he thinks.

“No, Joe,” Patrick huffs, trying to breathe through his nose as he used to. “I don’t fucking want to see you.”

After the fight, none of them wants to keep talking about the cheating. Like it doesn’t matter; anyway, they can’t understand each other, even if everything is clear.

Joe can’t let him go while he’s in this state, but Patrick just throws the red-stained towel into the sink, goes back to the room and picks up his acoustic guitar; it’s the only one thing Patrick wants to take right now.

“Wait, sorry! Shit, Patrick, you can’t!” Joe shouts almost hysterically, and Patrick groans, looking at the ceiling and counting to ten. “I’m not sure…”

“ _I am_ sure,” Patrick responds, checking himself in the mirror again. He hopes his jacket will cover the stains on his shirt. Patrick is ready to punch Joe again, when he catches him near the front door, apologizing non-stop.

Patrick pushes his ex-boyfriend away, grabs his hat and leaves the house; he feels Joe’s heavy glance on his back, but he tries not to pay much attention.

 

***

Andy’s face expresses nothing and everything at the same time, when he sees his best friend on the threshold of his apartment.

Patrick’s nose is bleeding again, and he just shrugs guiltily when Andy looks at him compassionately.

“Trohman?” Andy guesses, raising his eyebrow and scratching his beard.

Patrick nods and adjusts the strap of the guitarcase.

“We had a fight,” Patrick explains, stumbling into the room and realizing he’s dead tired.

“Dude, I know you ten years, and I can say, I’m like 90% sure that Trohman was right,” Andy pats Patrick’s shoulder with a little smirk.

“Fuck you both,” Patrick throws his head back, pinching the nostrils. His hat falls on the floor, but Patrick can’t bend over and pick it up, so Andy does it.

Patrick waits, sitting on the couch, while Andy heads to the kitchen to take some ice from the fridge, hoping it’s not too late; the bruise on Patrick’s face is already pretty big and nasty-looking.

“Wanna tell me what happened?” Andy goes back into the living room and hands Patrick a huge pack of frozen peas. Then he rummages in the wardrobe to find some clean t-shirt and pajama pants, thinking it will make Patrick feel more comfortable.

“He has a girlfriend now. I’m out of the boat,” Patrick philosophizes, wincing at the touch of cold cellophane against his sore nose.

“Oh man,” Andy bites his tongue and sits next to his friend. “Can I help you, like… Beat the shit out of him?”

Andy is that kind of friend who can joke and tease, but at the same time he can kick anyone’s ass, defending Patrick. By the way, Patrick doesn’t enjoy it and he always reassures that he doesn’t need to be protected.

“No, no!” Patrick groans, sniffing. “This is not a good decision. I’m just gonna take my things tomorrow, and it all will be over. And I have to find a place to live, new life, yeah?”

Subconsciously, Patrick suspects that Joe can do something really bad with his clothes or laptop, and it worries him. He has to take everything as soon as possible; but Patrick knows Joe pretty well — he’s not a revengeful person, unlike Patrick.

“Um, you can live here,” Andy’s sure that Patrick will refuse, but he really wants to help, because Patrick can do some really stupid and dangerous things when he’s upset or angry. Now he’s in exactly that state.

“Thanks, but no,” Patrick mutters from under the pack of peas. “I just freaked out. Talk about it later, okay?” he gets up, takes Andy’s clothes and goes to bathroom to clean himself up, still holding icy pack on his face with one hand.

“As you want,” Andy sighs.

Actually, Patrick wants to sleep; he decides to stay at Andy’s apartment just for a night, and tomorrow he will start his new life. He just has to buy new glasses to see it better.

 

***

When Patrick wakes up in the morning, he’s afraid to look at himself in the mirror, but he finds the guts and checks the damage closely. Thanks God, it looks much better than he had expected. Well, Patrick’s nose is still bruised and swollen a little, and there are dark circles under Patrick’s eyes, but it’s not the worst picture ever. Besides, everything is still hazy, but Patrick doesn’t want to see clearly all the details of his reflection right now.

But Andy wants.

“Let me see,” he insists as soon as Patrick walks out of the bathroom. Patrick turns to the light, and Andy smirks contentedly as he notices the result of last night therapy.

Frozen peas work miracles, really.

“I think, I fixed it by myself,” Patrick confesses as Andy slightly taps his finger at the bridge of Patrick’s nose. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut as the pulsation in his head returns immediately.

“Nice. You’re lucky,” Andy smiles a little. “Not as terrible as I thought.”

Patrick huffs, catching his breath; he has three days before the performance in the club, and it means he has some time to make the bruises on his pale skin not so colorful.

 

***

It takes a week — Patrick packs his bags (at the time when Joe is still at work), and he leaves his key under the door rug, telling himself he’s going to be okay. Now he lives at the other side of town; it was easier to find an apartment there, and Patrick repeats again and again — it’s just a new life. He enjoys his job, people are kind to him, and they love his voice and his music. Patrick meets Joe just once — his ex stops him on the street after the one of Patrick’s performances. Joe wears his very-very old t-shirt and ripped jeans, and Patrick says that it’s still hard to breathe properly through his nose. They both feel stupid.

 

***

Two days later, Joe calls him, and Patrick doesn’t know what hurts more: his broken nose or his broken heart. He doesn’t answer the call and changes his phone number on the next day.

After this, Patrick’s new life goes pretty normal as he used to; performances, clubs, even parties. At nights, Patrick feels lonely, but late calls home _(‘Mom, I’m fine, really. I’m not a baby, okay? I’m almost thirty’_ ) and Andy’s support _(‘Man, let’s go to fitness club?’_ ) help Patrick not to drown in his sudden depression.

It’s just temporary difficulties, Patrick can go through it.

His kettle burns one day, reminding him of Joe’s clothes. Patrick wants to hide from these associations or he just has to distract himself. Burnt kettle is not the biggest problem — Patrick has another /electric/ one, but there’s no frying pan in his new place, so Patrick decides to go shopping.

In the middle of the mall, when Patrick tries to tell the difference between the pans (he doesn’t care, actually), he feels like someone wants to draw his attention by tugging his jacket down. Patrick doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do when he sees a small, blond and curly-haired boy. 

“Can you help me?” the kid asks, looking up at Patrick with pleading eyes.

“Yeah,” Patrick lifts his hat up automatically, admitting that his new life is really odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joetrick, why not?  
> owen is my favorite actor btw  
> \----  
> so yeah. i'm doing this again, i'm adding chapters for already finished work. but i failed my career a writing drabbles anyway, so there'll be a place for my 'little outsiders' no one asked for ^^


	4. Strange Neighborship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night, Patrick shows up at Gabe's threshold with a bottle of liqueur.

**Pete/Patrick** , **Patrick/Gabe**

 

The couple from the opposite house is very emotional and temperamental. They live there just two months, but Gabe likes to watch them, and all what he can say — these neighbors are really strange. Typical Nerd with glasses and trucker hat, and Typical Emo-Kid with eyeliner and incredibly tight jeans. Gabe has no clue, how they can live with each other; they are, like, different. Maybe, it’s the reason for their constant fighting. But sometimes, they can be pretty romantic; they sit on the porch swing, kissing and seeming carefree and happy. Nerdy Kid plays guitar, murmuring something under his breath, and Emo-Kid looks at his boyfriend like he’s golden. Like they’re a perfect little family.

But their idyll doesn’t last long.

Tonight, these guys are shouting at each other again, and Gabe guesses he has to go and tell his neighbors that they are too-fucking-loud. Their voices are still ringing in Gabe’s ears, even when he closes the window in the living room.

On the street, something falls with a loud thud, causing another wave of indistinct curses.

Gabe just shrugs, heading to the kitchen to make some coffee; really, these weirdos can do what they want, and it’s none of Gabe’s business. But when he hears knocking at the door, he starts to worry automatically — what if it’s the ‘Call the police, my boyfriend is going to kill me’ type of situation. Maybe, he has to leave his warm nest and go and finally kick someone’s ass. But Gabe just sees that relatively quiet Nerdy Guy, standing on the front door steps; Emo-Kid’s boyfriend holds a bottle of liqueur, and Gabe just frowns as creepy thoughts flood his mind.

“Hey. I’m Patrick, and I want to get drunk in your house. Can I?” Gabe’s neighbor asks, confusing Gabe with this sudden question. Honestly, Gabe gives him a skeptical glance, because Patrick is tiny, and in Gabe’s eyes it looks kind of funny (okay, everyone is tiny compared to Gabe). Then he notices a phrase ‘F*ck television’ printed on Patrick’s white t-shirt, and admits it’s pretty badass. Okay, he’s not _tiny_ ; he’s just below average height.

“Hi, dude! I’m Gabe, and of course, you can, but… Your boyfriend wouldn’t like it?” Gabe lets Patrick in, and now he stands in the center of the hallway, pressing the bottle to his chest protectively.

Patrick rolls his eyes.

“He kicked me out. Literally,” Patrick rubs his hip, wincing and nearly dropping the bottle on the floor.

Gabe wants to smirk at Patrick’s clumsiness **,** but he blushes and sighs heavily, making Gabe choke on his smile. Actually, it’s the first time when Gabe sees his neighbor so close; Patrick shakes a little like he’s scared, but maybe, it’s just adrenaline or he’s just cold. Patrick carefully takes his sneakers off, and Gabe wraps his arm around Patrick’s shoulders, showing him the way to the kitchen and thinking what he has to do with his guest.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Patrick confesses in an apologetic tone, looking around the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, man. Make yourself at home,” Gabe replies, patting Patrick’s back.

Patrick gives him a weak smile, and Gabe just keeps talking, filling up the uncomfortable silence with his babbling.  

“I have a pizza, or…” Gabe offers, scanning the contents of the fridge.

“No, I’m not hungry,” Patrick shakes his head and slumps into a rattan chair, opening the bottle.

Gabe takes two small glasses out of the cupboard, realizing it will be an interesting night.

“Are you old enough to drink?” Gabe jokes, giving Patrick a playful wink.

“Yeah, I’m twenty-one,” Patrick nods, pouring yellow-orange liqueur into the glasses. 

One of Gabe’s strange neighbors wants to fight against depression, and he doesn’t mind to take a part. Patrick drinks his first shot of alcohol, relaxing a little; from the opposite chair, Gabe looks at him concernedly and gulps down the viscous and sweet liquid with a strong vanilla taste. Gabe doesn’t like liqueur, he prefers absinthe or whiskey, but he didn’t expect a company for tonight, so his personal little bar is empty.

After the fourth glass, Patrick slides down off the chair and claims that the floor is more comfortable. Gabe nods, grabs the liqueur from the table and sits down beside his new friend; Patrick was right — rattan furniture is not a good choice for the kitchen, even if it looks cool and stylish.

Patrick sighs, leaning his shoulder against Gabe’s long arm, and Gabe strokes his sweaty reddish hair. He’s obviously drunk, and he snorts like he wants to tell a secret, but hesitates.

“What?” Gabe asks impatiently when Patrick’s breathing gets faster and anxious. Gabe gives him the bottle; smaller guy takes a sip straight from the bottle neck and wrinkles his nose as the alcohol burns his throat.

“It’s Pete…” Patrick blinks to make his vision clear, but it doesn’t help. “You know, my boyfriend. We’re like, five years together and… It’s our anniversary today.”

This sucks, certainly; to celebrate the anniversary getting drunk with almost unknown neighbor is the worst-case scenario. But Patrick just needs to share his heartache with someone.

“And..?” Gabe doesn’t drink much, because it’s Patrick’s Day, and Gabe is here just for a company like a shoulder to cry on.

“He’s strange…” Patrick swallows down his unspoken words and licks his lips nervously. His glasses slide down his nose, but Patrick doesn’t bother himself with pushing them up.

“Oh, I understand, he’s like, wearing eyeliner and all that shit,” Gabe curls the corner of his mouth into a half-smile, reaching his hand out and rubbing Patrick’s back encouragingly. It’s just a spiritual impulse, but Patrick shudders, and Gabe feels his muscles tense under his palm.

“No, not in that way. He’s… I don’t know. He can hit me when he’s ‘not in the mood’ and then he apologizes, of course, but… Whatever,” Patrick pouts. He fidgets a lot, his thigh is close to Gabe’s, and it makes him forget that Patrick _is not his boyfriend_. Gabe reminds this to himself nearly every second.

Patrick has enough problems, really.

“How often?” Gabe has never seen physical abuse, but who knows what happens behind closed doors. Patrick leans closer to Gabe’s side, he’s warm and drunk, and he keeps pouring his stream of mind on Gabe.

“It’s just… I don’t like to whine… Shit,” Patrick literally bites his tongue. “I love him. But it’s hard, because I… I don’t know what’s going in his mind at the moment! And it scares me,” regaining some balance, Patrick shifts on the floor and hugs his knees. He almost knocks down the bottle, but Gabe holds it up. “Like he can’t be just Pete.”

Seriously, Gabe tries his best not to stare at Patrick, when he takes the bottle again and thoughtfully _sucks_ the bottleneck, his lips red and glossy, and it doesn’t look innocent anymore.

“Mental instability? Bipolar?” Gabe’s brain lazily picks up these medical terms, surprising him.

Patrick just shrugs and drops an empty bottle on the floor.

“We can go through this,” Patrick sighs, trying to get up but failing; his elbow bumps to Gabe’s chest, and they both gasp. “Woah. Thank you for listening…”

Suddenly, Patrick goes limp against Gabe’s side and rests his head on Gabe’s thigh, unable to sit straight. His cap knocked at the side, glasses crooked, and Gabe can’t resist the urge to touch his cheek. He just wants to be sure that Patrick’s sideburns are soft. Yeah.

Patrick’s drunk in the most philosophical way; he slurs something about the wedding plans, about the new color of their kitchen and other stupid things about his and Pete’s shiny-bright future. Gabe tries to catch the wave of Patrick’s chaotic thoughts; now he talks about dogs, cats and pets at all.

“I’m allergic to cats,” Patrick says trustingly and sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “And flowers. Maybe Pete’s mad at me because of this?”

Gabe smirks as Patrick gives him an inquiring glance.

“Bullshit. He’s mad at you because he’s a dick,” words slide off Gabe’s tongue, but Patrick giggles in agreement.

“Sometimes,” Patrick exhales loudly. “You’re right.”

Leaning his numb back against that damned rattan chair, Gabe sits in an unimaginable position, but he has no chance to move under Patrick’s weight. He’s almost curled into a ball, and he wriggles in attempts to comfort himself on the floor. When Patrick slides down again, Gabe wraps his arm around Patrick’s waist to lift him up. Patrick’s t-shirt rides up, and Gabe sees a thin line of the soft pale skin above the waistband of his jeans; of course, Patrick doesn’t look like a fitness fanatic, but hey — his slight chubbiness makes him unique and somewhat helpless. In a good way, though.  

But Gabe changes his priorities when Patrick gives him a little _dirty_ smile, biting his plump bottom lip. A very cheap cliché, but it works on him. It’s like Patrick has a halo and devil horns at the same time; well, not only his boyfriend is bipolar.

Patrick’s mood changes, and shit — Gabe just rubs his shoulder, but Patrick’s reaction is unpredictable; he grips Gabe’s hand and tries to move it down to his hips. Gabe doesn’t know how he could let this happen, but he palms Patrick’s crotch through his jeans, and Patrick lets out a fucking _moan_. It’s charmingly embarrassing, and no — it’s not a love.

It’s just sympathy.

It’s just a dim ceiling lights and darkness beyond the window; it’s just a strong sexual tension and lack of romance.

“You don’t have to… M-m…” Gabe knows what he wants to get, when he sees Patrick’s face inch away from his own.

“What if..?” Patrick smirks. It’s not a question, actually.

Gabe can’t move away, feeling a playful touch of Patrick’s lips against his own; maybe, Patrick just returns the favor to Gabe’s hospitality, but he places all his weight onto Gabe’s lap, kissing him again. Despite Patrick’s softness, his kisses are angry and desperate, like he takes his last chance to kiss someone on the Earth. Patrick’s breath smells like vanilla and alcohol, hot and wet against Gabe’s opened mouth.

How the hell that Emo-Kid can be such an asshole, when his boyfriend has such a prefect mouth?! Gabe can’t find more comfortable position because of their height difference; he holds Patrick on his thighs, and his horny neighbor spreads his knees explicitly, rubbing against Gabe and kissing him without giving a chance to get some air. Gabe’s fingers dig into Patrick’s ribs, hard enough to leave some noticeable marks on his skin under his t-shirt. Pete wouldn’t like it. Patrick is reckless; Gabe understands he’s just doing it to make Pete hurt, but it’s Patrick’s decision (even if it’s the part of his revenge) — and he takes the control on the whole situation. Literally. When Patrick says ‘no’ (ignoring the fact that Gabe’s hand already pushes Patrick’s unbuttoned jeans down), Gabe stops his activity immediately.   

“What,” Gabe feels a little embarrassed and a lot dissatisfied, but it seems like Patrick doesn’t even notice this. He just turns his head, looking away, and Gabe hypnotizes with his gaze a small blue vein, pulsating on Patrick’s pale neck as he breathes out through his clenched teeth.

There’s an awkward pause before Patrick snorts and wriggles in Gabe’s hug. 

“I need to get some sleep,” Patrick replies and manages to fixate himself in vertical position successfully for the first time at this evening. Gabe waves his hand at the upstairs bedroom, hoping Patrick is not going to break his legs during his walk to the second floor.

Patrick gives him a confused look, crossing his arms over his chest and covering that vulgar phrase on his t-shirt.

“Um… Go with me?..” now he is like a little kid, who’s afraid of the dark. Maybe, he is.

Silently, Gabe gets up and follows him, thinking that he has to take a break and sneak into the bathroom, and finally get himself off.

 

***

This night, Gabe forgets what peaceful sleep feels like, his overloaded brain is a total mess. Now he shares his bed with Patrick; Patrick lies on his side, his head on Gabe’s outstretched hand. It feels so natural, but they both clothed, and it is the proof that they are just neighbors, not boyfriends. Being ‘just neighbors’ is even worse than being ‘just friends’.

Patrick’s still unzipped jeans hang low on his hips — on the way to bed he couldn’t find the energy to tug them up. He pulls his knees to his chest, and Gabe can’t stop imagining these fucking _jeans_ on these fucking _hips_ are too fucking _low._ Patrick’s like a lonely teen in his own bedroom; Gabe can’t see it, but he just _knows_ that Patrick’s hand clamped between his legs, and probably, in his sleep he touches…

Gabe chokes back a moan.

It’s not even a love, it’s just something that Gabe could have, but he didn’t get it. He doesn’t enjoy being Patrick’s drunken mistake, but anyway, he is.

Patrick snorts a little, and it sounds somewhat comforting. The shadows are dancing on the ceiling, and it’s almost dawn, but Gabe finally closes his tired eyes, dozing off.

 

***

The morning starts with hard and unfriendly kick at the front door. Gabe puts some efforts and climbs out of the blanket and Patrick’s hands (who would have thought he likes cuddling?), and goes to check out who’s his uninvited guest.

He already has some thoughts about it as he opens the door.

Pete looks miserable; his eyeliner is smeared, and his dark hair is tousled in the weirdest way. And he kicks the door again, glaring at Gabe.

“Where’s he?” Pete asks darkly. “Patrick, come here! RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!”

Pete’s fist slams into the wall, and Gabe just factitiously rolls his eyes.

“Hey, amigo, chill! He’s not your bitch, remember,” Gabe responds; well, it sounds rude, but at least, Pete stops hitting the wall.

But he promptly finds another thing to do.

“TRICK!!!” he yells impatiently, standing up on tiptoes to be a little bit taller.

After a few seconds, Gabe hears some rumbling from the stairs, and Pete stares at something behind Gabe’s back. Instinctively, Gabe turns around and sees — of course — Patrick, wrapped into the blanket; Gabe can swear there’s a flash of genuine fear in Patrick’s sleepy eyes, but he manages to calm down and yawns, pressing palm to his mouth.

“G-good morning,” Patrick mumbles, walking slowly to the doorframe where Pete stands. Patrick doesn’t look confident anymore, and probably, he acts like last night only when he’s completely wasted.  

To get wasted on vanilla liqueur is a talent, by the way.

“I love you!” Pete blurts out, and Gabe just feels Patrick’s hysterical sigh somewhere at the level of his shoulder. Patrick’s baseball cap looks rumpled, and the lenses of his glasses are dirty, and Patrick seems small and disoriented.

“I’m sorry…” Patrick whispers guiltily, and for some reason Gabe realizes those words were addressed to him. Not to Pete. But Pete doesn’t notice.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Pete makes a step forward and pulls Patrick into a tight hug. Patrick hesitates for a moment, and then he hugs his boyfriend back; the blanket falls off of Patrick’s shoulders, and Gabe just catches it in the flight.

Pete and Patrick stand, holding hands and looking at each other’s eyes wordlessly. They stay here just a few moments; Pete waits for his boyfriend while Patrick tries to find his sneakers in the corner of the hallway. Then Gabe’s neighbors nod at him almost synchronically and go out of the door; Pete keeps squeezing Patrick’s palm, and Gabe is sure it hurts.

Odd couple heads to their house without turning, and Gabe’s heart clenches at the memories — it was amazing and sad at the same time. Patrick is kind of prefect with his imperfectness, with his round stomach and bony wrists, brown eyelashes and green-blue eyes. Gabe can’t describe him in the most poetical way, and there are no needs to idealize Patrick like an angel, and it was just one fucking night. Patrick’s intentions were not serious from the very beginning — he knew that he wouldn’t have sex with Gabe. Because _Pete_ is Patrick’s one and only drug, and it’s an unhealthy and creepy affection, and at the bottom of his consciousness Patrick is just a kid who hangs out with ‘bad guys’ to be a little cooler. Maybe, he’ll understand this one day.

It’s okay.

Gabe can’t regret about the relationship he didn’t have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's just because i love patrick/gabe, but i can't stop writing about patrick/pete, and again - why not?!


	5. For Your Own Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy and Patrick talk about kissing girls.

**Andy/Patrick**

 

Some dudes from Patrick’s school think that Andy Hurley is a boring person. Patrick suggests it’s just because Andy’s wearing glasses and also he’s good at Chemistry; but no one knows that Andy has the biggest collection of comics about superheroes, dreams about tattoos and really likes rock-music. It’s kind of Andy’s side no one wants to know about, but for Patrick it’s not a secret — Andy is his best /and only/ friend. Mostly, because of Patrick’s lack of skills at Chemistry. Really, it’s phenomenal; Patrick’s mind goes blank only when he hears something about chemical elements let alone to do his homework successfully. They have Chem three times in a week, and it means that Patrick hangs out with Andy almost every evening. Okay, every evening, except for evenings when Elisa tries to teach him Math. It’s another problem.

Patrick stares at his exercise book, trying to balance chemical equations, but squeaky voice in his head starts singing stupid children’s song, and Patrick just wants to bang his heavy head against the table desk.

“Why the hell I’m so stupid?!” Patrick asks sadly, rubbing his eyelids under his glasses.

“Relax, man. It’s just not for you,” Andy shrugs.

“Thanks, but it doesn’t help me during the test,” Patrick sighs, holding a pen between his index and middle fingers like a cigarette. 

“I’ll help you,” Andy smiles at his friend, and Patrick just rolls his eyes.

Yeah, Andy is always near, but Patrick has to be more independent. At least, he thinks so. But Andy really helps Patrick to fight against the bullies in school, and it’s a good thing. Patrick lets out a groan, shaking his head — his homework puts a pressure on him, and he definitely has no time to finish it before the night.

“My brain boils up,” Patrick complains, glaring at Chemistry textbook.

“You just need to have some rest,” Andy offers, stretching his legs under the table.  “Let’s just talk for a while.”

“Um… Well, okay,” Patrick looks around Andy’s room, and his eye catches some changes. “Woah, is this a new Superman blanket?” he gets up off the chair, heads to the bed and flops down onto it.

“Yes, limited edition,” Andy replies proudly and sits down next to Patrick, slapping his side to make him roll on the center of the bed.

“Nice choice for five-year-olds,” Patrick smirks. “I don’t think it will help you to find a girlfriend.”

“Ah, and so what? You’re still watching Darkwing Duck!” Andy laughs, noticing some blush on Patrick’s cheeks. Andy winks at him. “Have you ever kissed a girl, Patrick?”

Okay, Andy always wins. Patrick regrets about his jokes now. He sits up on the bed, guessing the pause was long enough to give Andy an answer; there are a few seconds before Patrick will hear a lecture about Andy’s perfect personal life, and Patrick’s whole life, apparently, sucks.

“But Darkwing Duck is cool…” Patrick mumbles, realizing that he somehow managed to forget all the chemical formulas, which he had just learned.

“But we talk about kisses,” Andy teases, and Patrick tries to hide his face, tugging his baseball cap down. He also wants to be invisible or disappear, and his overheated skin burns. _‘Shit, Stump, keep calm,’_ Patrick repeats mentally.

“Let’s finish the homework maybe?” he asks, in attempts to save his smashed dignity.

Andy adjusts his glasses and tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear. So fucking beautiful.

“It’s a simple question,” Andy insists. Patrick tells to himself he’s just thirteen-year-old, and it’s too early to consider himself as a loser. But hey — Andy is a few months older, but it looks like he has some experience. Probably, Patrick doesn’t know something.

“Well…” these three dots at the end of the word literally hang in the air, and Patrick inhales loudly. “I’m like… No? I mean, I don’t know… And…”

“Nice, me too.”

Patrick is so grateful that Andy still can understand him, even when Patrick’s tongue is a heavy mess in his mouth. But hey — Andy told him about some very intimate thing, and Patrick frowns painfully; he isn’t sure it’s true.

“Do you want to, m-m, practice?” Andy blurts out, and Patrick almost screams.

“What? Are you crazy? I’m not a girl!!”   

Okay, this sounds stupid. Patrick doesn’t care.

“Whatever,” Andy’s voice is carelessly soft.

Patrick slides off the bed, and he _does not_ feel something warm at the pit of his stomach when Andy snatches his arm and drags him back on the mattress. Honestly, _no_.

It’s just a dream — Andy grips Patrick’s t-shirt and pulls him closer, and Patrick lets out a surprised noise as he feels Andy’s pierced tongue in his mouth. Actually, this piercing is Andy’s biggest secret, and no one knows about it, except for Patrick — and it’s incredibly hot. The conscience dies in the darkest corner of Patrick’s mind; he’s a _boy_ and he kisses a _boy_ , and probably, it’s not right. Again, Patrick doesn’t care. Andy is just his best friend and it’s just an experiment. They just want to be more self-confident with their future girlfriends. _Girlfriends_. Andy knocks these thoughts out of Patrick’s head as he knocks the air out of Patrick’s lungs, pushing him onto the pillows. Patrick moans and sucks Andy’s lower lip absorbedly, making him to huff; Andy ducks his head to avoid bumping his nose against Patrick’s, and Patrick’s hands slide on his shoulders, the touches of hot and a little sweaty fingers turn him on, and he’s slightly embarrassed by the reaction of his body. Andy takes Patrick’s baseball cap off, noticing sparkles of sadness in Patrick’s blue and a little bleary eyes.

And then, his hand under Patrick’s t-shirt, rubbing his belly, and his mouth is still pressed to Patrick’s, and it’s something new for both of them. Patrick shifts uncomfortably on the bed, when he starts to think that Andy tries to find his abs, and he almost wants to say ‘sorry, it doesn’t exist.’

But Patrick is too busy to speak; the wave of relief overwhelms him when Andy’s hand moves from his stomach to his hip. He still feels ashamed because of the lack of strong muscles, though.

Patrick keeps telling himself _he doesn’t care_. It’s not serious anyway. But the energy, which fills him up and familiarly pulsates somewhere at the zipper of his jeans, is more than just real. And Andy’s palm on that spot is real too.

_‘Just a kiss, it’s just a kiss, it’s…’_

Not anymore.

But Patrick’s is just thirteen, and Andy is barely fourteen-years-old, and the thought of what they’re doing makes Patrick’s head swim. But maybe, it’s just the lack of oxygen — Patrick can’t say his lungs are really strong; in their duo Andy is the sportsman, who can run a mile without even noticing it.

Patrick feels his friend’s excitement, Andy’s on top of him and he presses his thighs against Patrick’s; Patrick is ready to give up and he’s amazed by how fast and easy it goes. But he can admit it’s too much for him; no, it’s cool, of course, and Patrick is happy about their eternal friendship, but he still needs to breathe. Really, they are glued to each other like five minutes or so, and Patrick gasps between kisses spasmodically, and it stops being funny. Patrick isn’t sure is this just a dirty lenses of his glasses or the world goes blurry.

Now he knows how to kiss a guy, but what’s next?

“Shh, do you hear it?”

When Andy crawls away, Patrick inhales like it’s the last chance in his life; thinking it would be rude, he tries not to cough. Andy looks concerned.

“What?” Patrick lazily comes back to his senses.

“Dude, it’s my mom,” Andy presses his index finger to his reddened lips. “Get up, please,” he adds.

Mrs. Hurley. She likes Patrick, but he guesses she wouldn’t be so pleased, seeing their ‘practice’ in her son’s room. Hearing steps behind the door, Patrick jumps up on that Superman blanket (c’mon, Batman is much better) and rushes to Andy’s table, pressing his ass to the chair right in time — Mrs. Hurley enters the room and smiles, looking at Andy and his shy-always-blushing-friend.

“Oh, hello!” she waves her hand in greeting. “How was your day? Are you hungry?”

Too much questions. 

“No, thank you, I don’t like vegetables…” Patrick suddenly blurts out and facepalms right after saying that. “Sorry,” he apologizes politely.

“Don’t worry, I have some cookies for you,” Mrs. Hurley laughs.

Forcedly, Andy smiles back at her, and Patrick, still out of his breath, nods in response wordlessly. This family is really kind and friendly, but Andy’s parents are obsessed with healthy lifestyle and they always try to feed Patrick with some strange vegan things.

“We have to finish the homework,” Andy informs, pushing his glasses up on his nose like a professor.

“It’s too late for homework, isn’t it? I’ll be in the kitchen,” his mom frowns a little and disappears behind the door.

Patrick feels bad at the thought that they could get caught, but also he feels embarrassed and satisfied at the same time. But his damned homework still hangs like a sword of Damocles above him. Again.

“So,” Patrick sighs, reaching for the pen and Chemistry textbook. “Can you explain this? And this… And this. Oh God,” he slaps his hand against his forehead.

Patrick only remembers a chemical formula of water now. But he knows it since he was four. Not much has changed.   

But now he knows what kissing with a guy with pierced tongue feels like.

Andy just smirks and gives Patrick his own papers with already finished homework; Patrick nods gratefully and tries to scribble in his exercise book something similar as Andy’s scrawls.

It’s not the last evening of their tutoring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're like 13-14, but it's not an Underage as a warning? i think so  
> \----  
> also after FOB concert i feel guilty when i write fics... THE CONCERT WAS AWESOME THESE GUYS ARE AWESOME and oh my God


	6. Nothing Ever Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elisa likes watching Patrick — he squints when he forgets to put his glasses on, his hair is a little too long, and his beanies or baseball caps look funny.  
> And then, Elisa starts to notice the bruises. Yeah, Patrick is hyperactive and clumsy, and maybe his blackeye is nothing, really.

**Patrick/Elisa (friendship)**

 

Actually, Elisa Yao is not pleased by the fact that she has to teach Patrick Math on her free time, but anyway, she hopes their tutoring is gonna be alright. Patrick Stump is that kind of guy who doesn’t like to have heart-to-hearts, but he is pretty sociable, with a good dose of humor in his sometimes sarcastic phrases — it’s really cool —  Elisa always laughs at Patrick’ jokes. Step by step, they just start this ‘being friends’ thing; during their meetings, Elisa likes watching Patrick — he squints when he forgets to put his glasses on, his hair is a little too long, and his beanies or baseball caps look funny.

And then, Elisa starts to notice the bruises. Yeah, Patrick is hyperactive and clumsy, and maybe his blackeye is nothing, really.

“I got into a fight,” Patrick says, licking his split lip.

“Why?” Elisa can’t keep her intonation calm in this situation.

“Dunno. I don’t like being bullied,” Patrick just replies.

Elisa’s parents are at work now, so it means she has to force Patrick to do his Math homework, but honestly, she’s busy playing the role of a nurse. Elisa stubbornly pins Patrick to the couch, but Patrick struggles, intending to go home — his mom works at the hospital, she can deal with his _little_ injuries.

“Andy’s knuckles are bleeding,” Patrick informs proudly, winking at Elisa.

“Are you guys idiots?” she guesses.

“Maybe,” Patrick shrugs. “At least, I’m still alive.”

She slaps his arm with a damp towel.

“Be careful,” Elisa makes another attempt to pacify Patrick and force him to lie down on the couch, but it only makes Patrick giggle; Elisa just throws the textbook on the parquet.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Patrick winks again, probably, because the reddened skin under his eye hurts like hell.

But Patrick sounds optimistically, and Elisa reluctantly believes him.

 

***

She doesn’t know Patrick really well, she repeats mentally; as a result of this autotraining, Elisa ‘ignores’ Patrick’s face expression when he comes to her, clenching his side or rubbing his bruised elbow. They meet just twice in a week, it doesn’t count as an informal communication. As a pretty busy person, Elisa attends a School Theatre Club at Wednesdays, after the classes; usually, Patrick waits for her in the hallway, then he follows her home. Patrick makes a lot of jokes about his Math skills, and also, he can’t survive Chem test without Andy Hurley’s support or Andy’s brain. But Patrick is incredibly good at Biology, English and History, so it’s just a fair exchange.

Today, after the Theatre Club, Elisa catches Patrick sitting on the windowsill; the boy stares at his phone, he doesn’t even want to greet his female friend. Patrick’s head rested against the window, he isn’t even wearing his glasses — he just hypnotizes the phone screen with his glance.

“Hey?” Elisa shakes his shoulder worriedly.

“Hi,” Patrick sighs, hiding his phone back into the pocket of his jeans.

Elisa can’t hold her angry tears back when her eyes catch a line of small round fingerprint-bruises on Patrick’s neck; it looks like someone had grabbed him roughly from behind.

“Your shirt is dirty,” Elisa points out in a deadpan voice. It’s not just dirt, actually, and one of the sleeves is ripped, and these dark spots on the collar don’t look like stains from a cherry punch.

“Stupid eyebrow,” Patrick frowns. “I fell onto the rock. Now my Mom is going to kill me for my broken glasses.”

Oh, his eyebrow, indeed. No, it’s not bleeding anymore, it’s just something that Patrick couldn’t wash off properly.

“Andy…” Elisa starts, but Patrick cuts the stream of her sentimental thoughts off, freaking out.

“Andy wasn’t there, okay?” Patrick presses his fingers to a barely healed wound above his right eye.

“You should tell someone about this,” Elisa mumbles. 

“No. Let’s go,” Patrick grabs his bag.

Suddenly, Elisa wants to know what Patrick hides under his clothes, not in a sexual way, though (it’s not that Patrick is not sexy, but he started wearing a long-sleeved shirts about a week ago). These bullies always beat him up stealthily so no one could notice, and Elisa has never seen Patrick wearing shorts at PE. Wordlessly, she rolls up the sleeve of his shirt — the girl just wants to be sure Patrick doesn’t have any cuts. Elisa hears Patrick’s heavy heartbeating as she inspects the mess of fresh bruises on his forearm. Of course, he has an identical abstract picture decorating his other arm.

Patrick flinches and tugs the sleeves down.

“It’s late. You have to go home,” he insists. Elisa can’t stop staring at the purple-blue aureole over his right eyebrow.

“But your head…”

“Hurts. Thank you very much,” Patrick grumbles. “But I still can follow you home. Just, no Math today,” the boy smirks, and it makes Elisa smirk too. Patrick is a brave guy. Even if he pretends only for her.

“But we call your Mom then,” Elisa shakes her head, one of her curly strands tickles Patrick’s nose. He gives her a weak half-smile as he always does when he feels guilty.

“Okay. Do you have, um, a sticking-plaster?” Patrick rises up his good eyebrow, questioning.

Honestly, Elisa is about to cry, but it’s _Patrick_ , and she doesn’t want _him_ to see her sadness. And, of course, she has an antibacterial plaster, she even can put stitches if it’s necessary. Thanks, Medical Class. Thanks, friendship with Patrick Stump.

 

 ***

Patrick’s terrified Mom promises to take him home at eight, so now he’s just procrastinating on Elisa’s bed instead of doing his Math homework.

Elisa lies next to his friend without having a clue where to start — she just rolls closer to Patrick’s side and hugs him, nuzzling to Patrick’s chest. Hugging Patrick is the best feeling ever — he’s perfectly warm and soft, it’s comforting; he hugs Elisa back, because he’s a good guy, and he doesn’t want to make the girl suffer from the lack of attention.

“Andy kissed me last week,” Patrick confesses; the feeling of embarrassment becomes stronger.

“Oh,” Elisa blinks at him. She sees Patrick not as often as his best friend does, and she doesn’t know what they are doing at Andy’s.

“I liked it.” Patrick explains. 

Definitely, Elisa is not ready for Patrick’s coming-out, but she feels honored that Patrick told her about this.

“So… Do you… Love him?”

“I can’t understand,” Patrick utters, and Elisa rests her head on his shoulder. “Andy helps me to get a few less injuries when I’m about to get bashed unconscious. Is this a reason for love?”

“Anyway, you got your head smashed,” she touches the white plaster on Patrick’s bruised forehead — Patrick will cover it with his hair and baseball cap diligently.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees, giggling, when Elisa starts poking his stomach jokingly.

 

***

Apparently, for all the next month all the assholes finally leave Patrick alone. He starts wearing short-sleeved t-shirts again, and Andy follows him almost everywhere.

Patrick even gets ‘A’ on Chem test and ‘B’ on Math.

 

***

On Patrick’s Birthday, Andy shows them his first tattoo on his arm; Patrick looks at it adoringly, and the twinge of jealousy stabs Elisa’s heart. It’s not because she thinks non-stop about Andy’s /pierced/ tongue in Patrick’s mouth, no. Shit.

Andy rants about his meeting with the dude who owns a tattoo-machine, and who agreed to make a somewhat illegal tattoo. It’s just the beginning, Andy is going to get his other tattoo next week, he says enthusiastically.

Patrick concludes he hates needles. Andy makes fun on him.

 

***

There are rumors about the new student in school — Pete. Pete Wentz. He glares at Elisa, but he carelessly winks at Patrick, and he almost drops his Math textbook onto his foot. Patrick scowls, and this emo-looking guy runs away across the hallway.

“He liked you,” Elisa elbows Patrick’s side encouragingly, and he gasps involuntary.

“Why do you think so?” Patrick mutters, rubbing his stomach. Likely, Andy didn’t have a time to protect him again.

“Why not? You’re cute,” Elisa reassures him, thinking blankly that this time Patrick doesn’t have any marks on his arms, at least.

Few minutes later, emo-guy comes back and stares at them interestedly. Elisa pats Patrick’s shoulder, jumps off the windowsill and rushes to the Literature class.

 

***

Next day, Patrick gets into the worst fight ever. Elisa doesn’t see a full picture — when she realizes what happened, Patrick already sits on the floor, trying to find his glasses blindly. Andy kneels next to his friend, and Pete crouches down next him; the boy in the baseball cap just takes a quick look at Pete and clutches his head. Elisa isn’t sure if Patrick is able to notice her in the crowd of students; then, Mr. Hoppus appears, helps Patrick to get up and almost drags him and Pete to the Principal office.

Passing by, Patrick doesn’t even turn to Elisa’s side.

 

***

Patrick’s Mom is angry, she wants to battle against the whole world, whe wants to go to Patrick’s school and make a big scene, but Patrick knows she won’t do this. For his own good. It’s just a minor concussion, but Patrick’s poor eyesight gets worse. 

Elisa sits on Patrick’s bed while he lies his face down the pillow.

“Why can’t I be normal?” he asks melancholically.

“You are normal,” Elisa blurts out.

“I know. But I want to be normal _for them_.”

Again, Patrick doesn’t talk to people about this bulling-thing, except for his Mom and Andy.

“Stop being nervous,” Elisa warns.

“Mission impossible,” Patrick rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “I’m gonna go back to school tomorrow... Andy said he hated himself because he wasn’t with me. Also, I have to talk to Pete.”

Elisa wants to blow Pete up with dynamite, along with the other bullies.

“How do you feel?” she places her palm on Patrick’s pale cheek.

“Well… I’m fine except for a terrible headache and crushed ribs,” Patrick responds flabbily. “Sorry. I just can’t stand it anymore.”

It hurts a lot. At all, Patrick doesn’t look like a person who is getting bullied regularly, he looks just like a boy who can’t find a common language with his peers sometimes. Patrick avoids getting his bones broken, but there is a scar on his eyebrow, and his glance is still unfocused due to concussion.

He’s strong, but a thin needle of pity pokes Elisa’s heart again as Patrick sits up on the mattress, hiding the echoes of pain under his eyelashes.    

“Honestly, I thought Pete liked me,” Patrick mutters.

Now it’s Elisa’s turn to change the subject of their conversation. The fact of being in Patrick’s bedroom is pretty intimate, but his Mom and Andy are in the kitchen right now, so she can’t even kiss Patrick’s cheek. The girl just tries to find a way of making his mood better.

“What are they cooking?” Elisa asks.

“I bet my Mom wants to make a chicken soup, and Andy tries to convince her to cook some vegetables instead,” Patrick chuckles.

It makes Elisa chuckle too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to write about their relationship, so i did


	7. He Stands Alone Because He's High On Himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete falls in love with the new Arma Angelus young drummer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are only some nearly canonic moments, idk  
> it's not exactly about Arma, but the story starts with it

**Pete/Patrick (pre-slash, van days)**

 

When Patrick Stumph — Arma’s session drummer — confesses that he suffers from stage fright, Pete just laughs at him. To be honest, this guy is there only to fill up the empty space for the couple of shows. Only. The rest of the band throws skeptical glances at the new kid, he is too-loud, it kind of messes up the show, and Pete wants either to smash Patrick’s face against a crash cymbal or make out with him. Besides, Patrick plays guitar at the backstage, murmuring something under his breath, and Pete notices the bright contrast between their timbres.

It’s hard not to fall in love.

It’s one of their after-parties, and Patrick hides in a shitty dressing room while other musicians hang out with dudes from the club. The drummer sits on the floor, leaning his back against the thin wall, obviously not having fun.

“The band breaks up,” Pete starts as he walks in.

“So. Um, it’s not your fault?” Patrick doesn’t even raise his head, just hoping it’s not his fault either.

“We have to create something new. I see you like a lead singer.”

Maybe, Pete Wentz is not a fan of unclean vocals anymore or maybe they’re too old to play this game called ‘Let’s pretend we’re famous’. Anyway, Chris Gutierrez and Adam Bishophave other plans for their future career.

“I have asthma,” Patrick scratches his bare knee through the hole on his frayed jeans. “It’s not that bad, but sometimes I get attacks, I don’t want to put it all on you.”

“We can just do a rehearsal, just try,” Pete persuades stubbornly, thinking that it’s not right. Maybe, it all goes too fast, but at least, Pete has Joe Trohman to cover his back.

 

***

It takes two-fucking-weeks of almost pleading and nearly threatening to make Patrick finally give his agreement and join the band with Pete and Joe. They find a drummer even. Definitely, Patrick can stand his brand new role as he plays the rhythm guitar and sings for their very first rehearsals. He drives Pete to the hospital when Joe smashes him with a guitar, and Pete needs to stitch up the deep wound above his eyebrow. After this, they keep being clumsy; Pete fails the spinning with his bass, and it accidentally hits Patrick in the face — it leaves a huge bruise and a cut on the bridge of his nose, but he’s okay. Not perfect, though.

 

***

They start performing in clubs, touring in Trohman’s van and making their way to the top charts without having a clue what they’re supposed to do if they will fall down without parachutes. They have Andy Hurley as the part of their team, they get this Fall Out Boy name, people from the label notice them. But during the interviews, Patrick’s voice cracks in some non-professional way, onstage he just tugs his knit hat over his eyes; once, Pete manages to kiss Patrick’s jaw, catching an approving whistle coming from the dancefloor.

At the gas station this evening, Pete just wants to talk, really, but instead, he snatches Patrick’s sleeve roughly as soon as the younger guy walks out of the tiny 24/7 café. Patrick holds a plastic cup of coffee in his hand, hot liquid spills onto his shirt and Pete’s hoodie, but Pete doesn’t seem to notice it. Patrick lets out a small surprised gasp, Pete grabs this almost empty cup and hurls it onto the ground, stepping onto the white plastic thing and hearing a painful crunch.

Patrick’s breath hitches.

“Why the fuck you don’t even talk to them? Fans want _your_ attention,” Pete’s hands fly to Patrick’s shoulders, and he shakes his friend intensively.

“Stop,” Patrick tugs at the front of his shirt, disgusted by the brown coffee stain.

“Do you wanna ruin our reputation?”

Patrick stares at his shoes instead of answering. Pete shakes him once again, much harder this time, Patrick’s teeth click and his trucker hat almost falls off his head. But Pete has to bite his too-big tongue and let Patrick go immediately, because he starts to wheeze, trying to say something nervously. Shit. Pete’s heart goes numb as Patrick slaps his palms over his jeans’ pockets frantically; he finds the inhaler and breathes in the spray hastily, almost choking on the medicine.

Pete feels the strong urge to comfort Patrick, but also, he guesses that Andy will kill him for being a cause of Patrick’s asthma attack.

“I didn’t mean to…” Pete isn’t sure if Patrick can hear his apology. At the same time, Joe honks to them.

“Whatever,” Patrick snaps, hurrying to the van.

 

***

The nights are cold, four of them have to sleep together on the van’s floor; usually, there’s a good reason to hug Patrick without a fear of being pushed away, but apparently he’s still angry /or scared/. Pete hates it.

“Dude, stage fright is an excuse only for losers,” Pete smirks and rolls closer to singer’s sleeping bag, but Patrick only shoves his sharp elbow into Pete’s stomach.

“I’m a loser. Great news, thank you very much,” Patrick hisses crossly.

“Guys, relax,” Andy’s voice slashes Pete’s thoughts when he picks up the words for a witty answer.

“Shut up, assholes,” Joe mutters groggily.

The bass-player leaves his comments to himself, sinking in the calming void. Hours later, Pete hears short puffs of Patrick’s inhaler again.

 

***

“I wanna quit the band.”

Pete can’t blame Patrick for this decision — it’s hard to be brave when they wrapped their good old van around a tree on the icy roadside. There were tedious conversations with police officers, demonstrating their little injuries on cameras and drinking a gallon of coffee to stay awake all night. Joe still stutters due to the shock, and even Andy doesn’t look oh-so- unflappable anymore; they sit on the small leather couch in the bar, recovering from the accident. Finally, they’re alone for a while.

Probably, every one of them wants to take a break.

“Are you sure?” Pete asks, and Patrick leans against his shoulder, sighing hoarsely.

“I don’t know. I suck at talking, and sometimes I’m just terrified when I’m onstage,” he blurts out, taking his glasses off and clipping them on the collar of his t-shirt. 

“That’s why I’m a frontman,” Pete chuckles. Joe glares at him from the opposite side of the table.

“…and you’re gonna bury me alive because I’m not so perfectly polite to the audience,” Patrick grumbles.

“You are polite, you’re just… Not sociable.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Pete,” the lead singer points out. “You should’ve kicked me out of the band right after Arma’s split.”

The air gets sauna hot after these words; Andy whispers something into Joe’s ear, and then drummer and guitarist stand up, heading to the exit.

“But I didn’t, because you are talented,” Pete replies. _‘And I love you,’_ he barely holds himself back from saying this.

Soon, there’ll be a bunch of journalists, but now it’s only 3:20 am, the bar is empty, and even the waitress sleeps at the counter, so the pair of musicians is alone there. Patrick smells like sweat and coffee, it kind of makes Pete feel dizzy, and he nuzzles to his best friend’s unshaven cheek. Patrick’s breathing gets faster, but somehow he manages to control his probable asthma attack.

“I think I’m gonna stay,” Patrick utters, ruffling Pete’s hair. “I’m gonna be hella jealous if you’ll find another dude to flirt with.”

 


	8. It’s A Role You Share With Me (Believe Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick thinks of what Pete would say if he’d seen his friend sitting in the bathroom just in his t-shirt and underwear and holding a bloodied paper knife in his shaking hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: blood/self-harm

**Pete/Patrick**

 

Thin blade of a paper knife slashes the sensitive skin; the small stream of blood trickles down Patrick’s pale thigh freely, leaving him scared and confused. _‘If Pete can stand it, then I can stand it either,’_ he repeats to himself stubbornly, wishing he could just throw the knife away without dealing with the bleeding. _Bleeding,_ Patrick can’t believe his eyes. That’s why Pete’s bedsheets stained red too often, that’s why Pete is a big fan of black jeans, that’s why Pete is so weird and unfamiliar. Pete is kind of addicted to self-harm, but this motherfucker is so good at concealing the aftermath, and Patrick just has a stupid hope that he can change Pete’s intentions if he will try to share Pete’s _hobby_ with him.

Pete is going to kill Patrick if he finds out the truth about his experiments.

But Pete isn’t going to stop his own experiments. Even though Patrick _begs_ him to stop.

Tiled bathroom floor is cold against his ass; Patrick sighs and cuts himself deeper, seeing another trickle of crimson liquid and leaning his sweaty back against the wall. He hates hotel bathrooms with their hideous secrets, hates hotel squeaky beds with nasty stains on the mattress, hates the way his blood collects into a small puddle on the tiles and wets his aching leg.

This kind of behavior is typical for a sad-tumblr-anorexic girl, not for Patrick who plays and sings for the young and perspective rock-band. Not for Pete, who managed to create that band. Patrick thinks of what Pete would say if he’d seen his friend sitting in the bathroom just in his t-shirt and underwear and holding a bloodied paper knife in his shaking hand. That’s how Patrick spends his day off, having the strong suspicion Pete is going to perform the same ritual /again/ as soon as Patrick will leave the bathroom.

Maybe this madness will unite them.

Cold water in the shower is still on; Patrick nearly cuts his finger as the hard knocking at the door drags him away from his heavy thoughts.

“What the hell are you doing here for so long?”

Pete. Patrick whimpers and reaches for the towel to press it over the fresh wounds.

“Are you okay?” Pete yanks at the doorknob, and Patrick gets terrified for a second before he realizes he’d locked the door to avoid Pete’s invasion into his personal space.

This week, it’s probably the first chance for them to use the shower, and Patrick just got himself dirtier instead. He hisses as he stands up, tearing apart between the desires of cleaning himself up and hiding the pieces of evidence; Patrick’s thigh stings as hell, and his body trembles as he watches the small red bead running down to his already bruised knee.

He feels the bleeding becomes stronger as he takes an uncertain step forward.

“Patrick?” Pete’s voice grows louder.

“Give me a second!” Patrick replies, rummaging for the first-aid kit in the drawer. Sure, one second wouldn’t be enough; he needs at least ten more minutes to clean the mess he’d made.

“Dude, I’m just dying to use the bathroom!”

“Give. Me. A fucking second,” Patrick growls, rolling a bandage over his injured thigh clumsily.

Fuck your fucking habits, Pete.

 

***

Pete has old scars underneath the tattoo on his forearm and barely healed scratches on his shoulder; he acts like it’s nothing and grins at his bandmates. The pain crawls into Patrick’s broken skin as Pete slaps his thigh playfully before the concert while they are hanging out backstage, waiting for the audience to fill up the club.

“You look like shit today,” Andy says, wrapping a drumstick around his finger.

Patrick ignores Andy’s words.

Patrick concentrates on behaving as usual, but his slashed leg hurts so badly, especially when Pete’s mashing against Patrick’s injured right thigh onstage. He hasn’t thought this could be so uncomfortable.

What if Pete feels the same?

After the set Patrick’s clothes is sticky and damp with sweat. He almost hits Joe when the guitarist pushes him accidentally, and Patrick slams his hip against the side of the table, which sends the stream of nagging pain down the cuts on his leg.

“Sorry, dude,” Joe pats Patrick’s back while he rubs his thigh, picturing the bruise he’s going to get soon.

“You are okay, aren’t you?” Andy asks as the band packs their instruments, getting ready to continue their trip.

“Yeah,” Patrick snorts.

And Pete obviously suspects something.

 

***

 

When they drive to their next venue Pete rests his head onto Patrick’s lap, pressing harder each time when the van starts shaking due to the bumps on the road. It doesn’t make Patrick’s terrible mood better; he wants to kick Pete away from his aching thigh, because he wriggles again, and some inevitable thing happens.

Blood oozes through the layer of bandages, slowly soaking Patrick’s blue worn jeans (again, he didn’t realize his cuts were quite deep; besides, Pete spilled the beer all over Patrick’s black pants this morning, so he had to wear his old ones). Blood-stains on the clothes are disgusting. And _fuck_ \- it hurts.

“Gonna walk a little?” Joe stretches on the driver’s seat as he stops the van.

Patrick wants to clear his head, but Pete doesn’t leave him a chance to choose the preferences.  

“Me and Patrick have to talk. Here. Alone,” Pete says. Turning away from Andy, Patrick braces himself for mental punches he’s definitely going to get right the fuck now.

“Fifteen minutes?” Andy guesses, opening the door and getting out of the vehicle.

“Enough,” Pete agrees.

“Don’t trash the van,” Joe chuckles, following the drummer.

The moments of silence are the most awkward in Patrick’s life; Pete doesn’t help Patrick to get through the thick wave of embarrassment.

“Take your pants off,” Pete orders as soon as they’re alone in the car.

“Pete, it’s okay, I’m not…” Patrick swallows the lump of anxiety.

“I said: take your jeans off,” Pete repeats, voice softens. “Please. I have to see.”

Patrick glances at his thigh forcedly — the dark wet spot grows a little wider. He lets out a desperate sigh and fidgets on the seat, hunching under Pete’s unbearably sad gaze. Patrick unzips his jeans reluctantly and pushes them down to his knees, biting back a frustrated moan. He sucks at bandaging.

“Fuck,” Pete curses, tugging the end of the red-soaked bandage, and Patrick shivers at the blowing of a cold air over the bleeding cuts and blossoming purple bruises.

“It’s… it’s not _that_ bad, right?” Patrick pokes at the wound with his finger, wincing.

Pete shakes his head.

“No. The bandages were just too loose. You should’ve gotten them a bit tighter,” Pete explains, taking the bottle with disinfectant from his backpack and opening it.

“Oh. Okay… Shit!” Patrick cries out as Pete starts cleaning his injuries, using a cloth; even though Patrick did it yesterday, it’s still unfamiliar feeling for him.

It burns, Patrick’s thigh is itchy, and it seems like the scratches shrink; the bleeding stops after some manipulations, and Pete bends over, his lips almost touch the sore spot. Patrick thinks his friend is going to kiss his stupid cuts, but Pete just traces his finger against the skin, looking at the broken capillaries.  

Then, he distracts on searching for a sterile bandage in the pocket of his bag; his face expresses only concern as he finds the bandage and wraps it around Patrick’s injured thigh.

“Why?” Pete whispers hoarsely.

“Same question for you,” Patrick shrugs, rubbing his freshly re-bandaged leg. He’s afraid of Pete’s professionalism.

He’s not a big fan of conversations like this, especially when he’s a troubled one, and he sits next to Pete with his pants off like he’s gonna get spanked. Suddenly, the thought of spanking causes a traitorously-strong pulsation at Patrick’s crotch, and he bites the inside of his cheek to change the train of thought.

“Are you gonna blackmail me with this?” Pete purses his lips, placing his palm on Patrick’s knee.

Patrick thinks he has to tug his jeans up, but he doesn’t actually want to do this while they are so filthy and sweaty.

“Just wanted to figure out what makes self-harm so appealing for you,” Patrick scowls at the stinging under the bandage.

“Dude, I’ve been cutting myself since I turned nineteen,” Pete lets out a nervous giggle. “It helps me to calm down.”

“But it disturbs _me_!” Patrick thumps Pete’s shoulder helplessly.

Patrick is eighteen, and he’s the one to listen to Pete’s laments during his sleepless nights or to sing him to sleep when he asks to. He can’t pretend he doesn’t give a shit about his friend’s health! Self-harm is a terrible hobby.

Everything irritates Patrick now; it was his last pair of jeans, and it’s ruined now, and he has nothing left to wear, and it makes him feel insecure. When Pete offers him his black sweatpants, Patrick accepts this gesture wordlessly, his insides burning because Pete keeps watching him as he changes his pants. The band is going to meet Chris tomorrow, and Chris has a washing machine, and they can finally clean up their dirty clothes.

Likely, Pete is going to get scars on his ankle. He’s joking he’s going to cover them with a tattoo of Gabe Saporta.

“I wanna stop it,” Pete utters, chewing his lower lip. “For you, but… no promises. You are not going to follow me at my habits, are you?”

“Are you afraid of this?” Patrick raises his eyebrow questioningly.

Pete nods.

Patrick has some fuzzy feeling like he hit the right button.

They don’t have a time to continue, because Joe breaks into the van with a loud laughter and wide smile on his face; Andy gets inside next to him and winks at Patrick.

It’s his turn to drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the most popular theme in fanfiction idk it's hard to write something new about this


	9. Past < Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He lifts his head up and thinks this situation would be more logical if he was drunk. Because how to explain the fact that Patrick now sees a guy who looks almost like his twin or like his brother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ these](http://rxvenrxyez.tumblr.com/post/113762123338) [ posts](http://waysthetics.tumblr.com/post/136463645912/swiftembers-as-far-as-criticism-i-dont-mind)  
>  inspired me.  
> i don't own anything.

**2003!Patrick and 2013!Patrick**

 

Patrick is always the last one to pack his bags after the show. It’s been a really messed up week: concerts-interviews-talking-to-managers and so on, and the guys are simply tired of this hectic life. Of course, Patrick is about to explode, bitching about the tiniest shit like where-the-fuck-my-keys or Pete-stop-fucking-touching-me. When Joe makes that PMS joke, Patrick clenches his fist until his knuckles hurt, but manages to calm himself down right in time not to start a fight. His initials are P.M.V.S., actually.

So, his bandmates leave him alone with his old guitar and his backpack (these days no one can talk to Patrick more than ten minutes). Taking his glasses on, Patrick finishes his packing – finally – and turns to the exit, suddenly bumping into someone.

“Wait!” this someone exclaims as Patrick wants to apologize for his awkwardness.

He lifts his head up and thinks this situation would be more logical if he was drunk. Because how to explain the fact that Patrick now sees a guy who looks almost like his twin or like his brother?

“What?..” Patrick asks perplexedly, but the stranger just presses his finger to his mouth as a sign to shut up.

“I’m here to, um, talk?” he utters, and Patrick is getting irritated for some reason.

Uninvited guest is dressed in skinny jeans, grey-blue denim jacket with FOB logo, and there is a black fedora on his head. He looks stylish, but honestly, he looks just like Patrick who said ‘goodbye’ to his sideburns, long hair and baseball caps.

“Who are you?!” Patrick nearly screams, but fedora-guy chuckles and pats his shoulder familiarly.

“I was very funny,” the dude concludes. “What year it is?”

“Are you kidding me? It’s twenty-o-three,” Patrick replies, brushing his annoying strands off his face.

“Nice. I’m from twenty-thirteen,” the guy informs. “I’m like, the older version of you; you will be me when you grow up.”

Patrick knows his voice pretty well, and this guy sounds fucking the same, just like. Older.

Involuntarily, Patrick chokes on his sarcasm, staring at his interlocutor – he has a scar slashing his right eyebrow, and when he adjusts his hat, Patrick sees a mole on his forehead, almost covered with his familiarly-reddish bangs. Too many similarities. He’s a hologram, beyond any doubts.

Patrick can’t just accept the fact that he’s talking to upgraded model of himself, okay?

 “You’re lying,” he rubs his cheek, thinking about how smooth it looks without this caricature of facial hair.

Patrick’s hallucination leans his back against the door, blocking the only way to retire.

“So, why do I know your name, Patrick?”

The next Patrick’s thought is: if he punches this guy, will he get a blackeye as well? His older self seems to be calm. Is he a fan of yoga and Spirituality or his age just doesn’t let him make a scene?

“We’ve just released our first album, too many people know my name,” Patrick spits the words almost disrespectfully and winces at his own intonation.

“That’s great, but in 2013 I came from, we’re just released our fifth album,” the other Patrick smiles proudly. “I was in the back room, alone, then got really dizzy, and wow – I’m here.”

“Stop this,” Patrick mutters stubbornly. “You’re not _me_.”

“So why do I look like you?!” he’s pale like he got seasick due to his time-travel.

Really, it’s like talking to the mirror which makes a person ten years older. But Patrick’s reflection still looks young, and oh God how weird it is – he has the same form of nose, the same shape of lips, and it’s obvious that the young Patrick just goes insane.

“My Dad wasn’t a saint and cheated on my Mom?” Patrick groans and literally pinches himself in attempts to wake up. “Okay. Tell me my best kept secret.”

An adult Patrick rolls his eyes in best Patrick’s teenage manner.

“Secret? You’re in love with Pete Wentz. From your very first meeting, do you remember how dorky you were, and how friendly he was?”

Actually, that’s the reason why Patrick tries to avoid groupies’ who sometimes just crave to get into his pants after their gigs just because he’s almost famous. But pity sex is the worst item in Patrick’s personal list of disgusting things. He feels like he’s just sucker-punched himself.

He’s not a scientist, and he has to ask Andy to give him a lecture about time-fails, chronal illusions and about some reality-distortions. Patrick has heard about this on TV.

Patrick from 2013 looks confused. Wedding ring on his finger shines like an angel’s halo – the other tiny detail for the right look of a respectable almost-thirty-year old man. But it’s the attribute Patrick doesn’t need in his barely nineteen.

“Are you… Am I married?”

“Oh. Yes. To Pete. He proposed… He will propose in twenty-o-five, in hospital, right after his suicide attempt,” this makes Patrick want to scream ‘why didn’t you start with that’, but he just listens wordlessly. “Dude, it’s all gonna be fine, believe me. Just. Watch him, either your future won’t be so bright.”

Patrick sways as these news almost knock him out, and his surroundings become a blurry abstraction, but his adult version helps him to stand on his wobbly legs, eying him concernedly. Patrick’s heart smashes his ribcage from the inside, and he drops his guitarcase.

“I promise. I can’t trick myself, can I? There is just a ton of shit we’re going through,” Patrick sighs. All of the ‘creative differences’, the pressing from the journalists and who-are-you-we-want-only-Pete moments are quite embarrassing.

Grown-up Patrick smirks bitterly.

“Things will get weirder during the band’s hiatus, just be ready. Not all the fans will enjoy you making solo-career,” he says, shrugging.

‘Solo’ means ‘without Pete’, and being onstage ‘without Pete’ equals to ‘being onstage naked’. Patrick feels slightly like he might faint.

“Can I like… Avoid it?” he asks carefully, imaging a picture of how the older Patrick tries to bring him to senses.

“I don’t think so. If you will try to save the band for that time, you are gonna kill each other. It’s not your picket fence.”

Patrick’s bag feels heavy behind his back like that invisible weight on his shoulders when some interviewers are waiting for the witty answers Pete usually gives, and Patrick just plays his oh-I’m-here role. The insomnia feeds the demons of Pete’s depression, and the black ink of anxiety stains Patrick’s mind; it’s like a sick contest between two of them.

Patrick’s future self reads his colorful emotions – he knows it better – and gives him a sad glance.

“Keep your chin up,” an adult Patrick encourages while just-Patrick keeps staring at the parquet. “You’re much stronger than you think. And don’t let Joe crowdsurf, he sucks at this, I swear.”

The other Patrick is like the Oracle from Disneyland, but young Patrick doesn’t have to pay with coins to hear the standard phrase like the answer. He’s probably paying with his frayed nerves.

“Will my eyesight get better?” Patrick asks with a huge amount of hope in his voice. His adult version isn’t wearing glasses now.

“No, you will use contacts,” Patrick-from-the-future shrugs carelessly. “And be careful driving the van, you know, the roads are shitty.”

Too much misty information, the new Patrick could be more talkative, sharing his wise with the younger himself. Patrick doesn’t believe in faith and karma, but he has to decipher the signs.

“I think I’m here just to warn you,” Patrick confesses, lifting his fedora up. “I’m from twenty-thirteen, and it’s all okay there. Andy looks like a tattoo-museum,” he chuckles.

Patrick has a bunch of questions boiling up in his brain, but he suggests his older self isn’t allowed to change the subject. He’s here like Patrick’s local Prophet.

At least, Patrick has a chance to know one more thing about his future life.

“How, um… How does Pete look like? I mean, in twenty-thirteen?” he blurts out, trying not to pay attention on the grown-up Patrick’s giggle.

“Oh, man, he’s hot,” he replies simply. 

Then, Patrick hears a loud thud behind his back and turns away automatically, only to see the open window frame.  ‘It was just the wind, not some creepy-supernatural thing,’ Patrick repeats to himself.

But when he turns to his new friend (being a friend of himself is good, isn’t it), he watches just a little irritated Pete, entering the room.

“Did we lock you here? What are you doing here for so long?” Pete immediately reaches his hand to take Patrick’s guitarcase from the floor.

“Nothing,” Patrick answers maybe too fast. “I was just talking to myself.”


End file.
